Coming to Understand
by Shamelessly Me
Summary: Nobot knew her as anything other than That Femme Medic - you know, the one that was a femme (for Primus' sake) and repaired those in the Gladiator Pits? Yeah, her. And she would've preferred it if things had stayed that way. Of course, karma's a glitch, and it seems that fate would've rather had a much more interesting story than just repair after repair, much to her displeasure.


**Long author's notes are long... but only for this chapter. Promise!**

**So I was reminiscing about one of my history teacher's rants on Rome and the gladiator arenas... while reading a Transformers crack!fanfic, and this was the resulting bunny that was born. I'm not very familiar on this subject, so my information comes from TFWiki and Wikipedia. If there's anything glaringly wrong with my terminology, don't be afraid to tell me. Granted, this is an AU, so just keep these facts in mind.**

**Besides that, I hope you enjoy! No flames, please, as they will only be used to warm my hot chocolate. Constructive criticism, however, is appreciated.**

**Disclaimer: The only things I own are my original characters.**

**_Warnings:_ Not a happy fanfic (not sure if I could label it a dark!fic, though, since I'm _hoping_ things get better), violence, mentioned slavery, gladiator rings, slash and twincest, innuendo, though none of the aforementioned warnings are graphic, most are implied, hence the rating. I'm also warning that there will be many OCs for the beginning chapters of the story, since I know that some fans don't enjoy stories that have it like so. However, this is the main OC's life story - so she'll be along for the ride the whole time.**

**Continuity: AU with elements from other TF continuities**

* * *

_"Thoughts"_

**::Comm. link::**

_Time units as used in the story:_

_astrosecond - roughly half a second_

_klik - 1 minute_

_breem - 8 minutes_

___groon - hour_

_orn - day_

_deca-cycle - 3 weeks_

_stellar cycle - 7.5 months_

_vorn - 83 years_

* * *

_Coming to Understand_

They were getting a new group of novices that orn. Most of them were slaves, but others were volunteers, undoubtedly aiming for either fame or fortune, or both. They were all fresh from the academy, each primed and ready for their first fight. At least, they would be once _she_ got through with them.

She had already seen her fair share of novices come through the strict training regime of the gladiator academies. These orns, most of them made it - the others who couldn't were sent straight to the arena, unarmed and unprepared, mere toys for the proper gladiators, who in turn were toys to their masters. It was sickening, really, what went on in these arenas (not to mention illegal), but it was entertaining to large audiences in many of the states. Mind you, these were the city-states on Cybertron that weren't exactly known for their pro-peace activity - and so nobot objected or paid much notice. Especially in the larger city-states; the Gladiator Rings didn't concern neither the Council nor the citizens there, and so they outright ignored it if they could help it. That, or they secretly enjoyed the Rings themselves.

And so nobot objected _that_ much. Not like they could anyway, or their sorry afts would disappear before everybot else could have realized they'd even uttered a sound in protest. It was that, or the majority who enjoyed the Rings simply overwhelmed them.

And so, knowing the horrors that went on in these dark, evil, violent places, she'd come to work here anyway. She was a medic - one of few capable enough to survive here in Tarn's Rings on her own, cut off from help from friends or family. She was originally from Praxus, as evident with her large, spanning doorwings. It was unthinkable, really, to see one like her in the Pits. But she was there anyway, and she hadn't offlined yet.

A select few knew her story. Why a femme - who'd been a medic fresh from the medical academy of Iacon, at that - would come to repair the bots that sometimes willingly fought battles to the death was beyond anybot.

In fact, almost nobot knew her as anything other than _That Femme Medic_ - you know, the one that was a _femme_ (for Primus' sake) and repaired those in the _Gladiator Pits?_ Yeah, her.

And she preferred it that things stayed that way.

She couldn't say that she was _content_ with her life as it was - but Pit, she was alive and making decent credits, supporting her family in the only way she could, and that was good enough for her. Life _could_ have been worse, after all. Outwardly, she'd had to remain indifferent, because indifference kept you safe - caring about something got you slagged around here, as ironic a thought as that was coming from a medic.

To the side of her, she watched the low-status gladiators mill about their rooms - which were more like cages, in her opinion. Their designated living spaces consisted of merely open square spaces with a berth inside. Energon bars covering the openings were the only thing that separated the world from the fierce fighters. Currently, the novices were being put in the empty cells at the end of the hall.

The novices were in a nice line, each strong in appearance in their respective ways. They were all in shackles, but those would be removed once they were inside their 'rooms'. At the front of the line stood their trainer, and she immediately recognized him as a retired gladiator she'd worked on but once. He used a sword and shield, but also wore lighter armour, allowing for faster movement. Undoubtedly, this meant that the novices who trained under him would fight with that style as well. She was sure his name was something along the lines of 'Lightspeed' for just those traits. She nodded to Lightspeed when he passed her. She also eyed each novice, taking note of minor wounds that would need to be taken care of before their first fights later on that orn. She barely noticed the narrow-optic'd stares or the barely concealed surprise she garnered in return. It was common place now to get that from all the novices.

At the end of the line was the owner of the academy that they'd graduated from. His name was FirstStrike (for good reason) - she knew that - and he was a short, but buff mech, also a retired gladiator. He looked to the femme medic as he passed her.

"I expect they will be at their very best health before the fights," FirstStrike grumbled, his voice a gravelly, unpleasant one, "before they're beaten into submission again, of course. You will be there to repair them afterwards, I assume?"

She idly noted the mech's unusual-sounding vocalizer (perhaps in need of repair, for it was never like that before), then merely nodded in return to him. This conversation was an old, well-rehearsed one they'd had many times.

The owner made a grunting noise in acknowledgement, then left to inform the novices on how _"not to get offlined on their first orn, Primus dammit__"_ here in the arena.

The medic watched, silent as always, as FirstStrike made a show of yelling and using authoritative tones, servos clamped behind his back as he paced in front of the cells. He even pointed out a few mechs there and warned them about their 'gall and cockiness' not being tolerated. Which was true, the medic agreed to herself, since those two things were typically what got you killed in a fight - _especial__ly_ when you were a novice.

Each of the novices agreed with the short mech with varying amounts of eagerness or stoicism. When FirstStrike left, satisfied, the novices' trainer gave them much the same speech.

Checking her chronometer, the medic realized that she had a good few groons to work on the new gladiators - which was honestly more than enough time to repair any small wounds on each novice, talk with their masters, do some paint work if they so desired, and then finish with a few breems to spare. Today was going to be a busy orn, however, as it was a Cybertronian holiday.

Today was a holiday celebrated once a vorn where mechs and femmes were supposed to be thanking Primus for the blessings he'd graced upon them, and so for some reason - she refused to believe that it only because of the holiday alone (after all, it's not like there was much to be thankful for in the Rings, but that was just her opinion) - there were going to be more fights than usual. And so she had no doubt that the rest of her spare time would be put to good use repairing the gladiators who survived the orn's fights. Not to mention that the novices would probably be in dire condition after their own battles.

Though there _were_ more than a few fighters who believed that Primus had abandoned them, and so despised the aforementioned holiday with a passion (a passion they released in battle). She saw a lot of that here - those gladiators were the ones that lasted longest. The mechs soft enough to believe otherwise typically didn't fare well against others who had nothing to lose.

Lightspeed soon finished his rant, breaking the medic out of her musings, and the tall, lanky mech moved towards her, throwing a heavy servo on her shoulder. Her doors didn't even twitch.

He looked down upon her, a grin on his face, "Give the mech in room #4 a good talking to when you repair him, will ya Femme?"

She nodded, expression the epitome of emotionless.

Lightspeed paused, his attempt at conversation thoroughly thwarted in that one move, before he retracted his servo. He stared for a few astro-seconds more, then promptly left.

The medic got to work on the novices.

* * *

It was well into the night cycle. She was returning to her quarters, which thankfully, were more than just a jail cell. It was a simple room near the barracks of the gladiators who had the highest status, and was also right beside the labelled 'Med Bay' there. She headed inside said bay, planning on updating the logs on the novices from earlier in the orn and of their newly attained injuries in their first battles. Two of them lost their lives... not that she cared much. She also had to record the other injuries she'd repaired that orn on the lower-status gladiators: who were the only ones she was allowed to work on. The higher status gladiators were saved for her boss and mentor.

Said mech turned around the moment she entered his domain, his red and white paintjob slightly worn as clearly shown in the dim light. She stared straight into his optics, and he scowled slightly.

"It's a bit late, don't you think, Femme?" He huffed.

"Sorry, Medic." She spoke for what seemed like the first time that orn. Her doorwings twitched once in slight amusement, betraying how sorry she actually was. "It was a bit busy today, if you haven't noticed."

Her counterpart growled without any real anger, turning back to the arm that he'd been fabricating.

His real name was Ratchet, she knew, but the first time they'd met 'Medic' was what she'd addressed him as since he hadn't actually bothered to introduce himself. She hadn't bothered either, though she knew _he__ knew_ what her designation was (he'd undoubtedly have had to have read her file before she came to train under him after all), but her nickname in the arena was 'That Femme Medic' anyway, so he'd taken to it.

Her nickname was as it was because she was the only femme who _worked_ in the arena - the gladiatrices that fought here were in a totally different category than her. Any other femmes that happened to visit were civilians that wanted to boast to their friends about seeing the gladiators up close and personal, or pleasure bots brought in for the gladiators.

She didn't particularly like any of them.

Then again, she didn't particularly like anybot here besides Ratchet and a few other lower-ranked medics. Ratchet was the first 'bot to have greeted her in all of Tarn - granted it was an orn after they met that he'd done so, but he was still the first.

She remembered her first orn working in the Rings - one of the more popular gladiators had been in critical condition after a battle, having collapsed immediately after he walked inside from his fight. They didn't have enough servos to help back then, so she had been asked (commanded) to help virtually two astroseconds after she'd walked inside the amphitheatre herself.

And so the two medics had worked on the gladiator for most of the orn, Ratchet guiding and her following his lead. Then the Ring's owner - she had "affectionately" nicknamed him Ringleader soon after meeting him, bossy mech that he'd been - had kept her afterwards purely on the fact that she was willing to stay, and that she was in need of credits and a living space, which he could supply.

...though she was still sure she wasn't paid as much as some of the gladiators or granted as nice a room. Then again, that was a given anyway for the more successful fighters.

She fondly remembered the memory of Ratchet waking the next orn with a femme in his room (the room he recharged in when he was too exhausted to drive home, which also happened to be beside med bay) - who had just finished her medical training in the academy, and had brightly claimed to be his new trainee. She had held out a servo then, trying to make a good impression despite her plating being worn down as all Pit, expecting him to shake her servo in return. She'd even gushed that she was honoured to be working under him. That was back when she was _new, fresh, and excited_ to be working with the _legendary prodigy_ Ratchet in the _thrilling and awesome_ Gladiator Pits.

He had stared at her from ontop of his berth, still covered in the energon of the gladiator from the other orn, mouth slightly agape and optic ridges furrowed. That continued for a good few klicks before he finally managed a growling, "What the frag is a _femme like you_ doing here?"

She'd heard the unspoken questions: Were you disowned? Perhaps you did something unspeakable and now no other decently-ranked hospital will hire you? Or maybe you're doing this in an act of defiance against your creators?

Her answer had been to repeat his own question back to him. Afterall, she wasn't oblivious to the reputation he had. Ratchet was well known for his talented servos, even young as he'd been back then. Pits, he'd been famous even when he was just a student at the Iaconian Medical Academy. He easily could have been working in a place that was both safer and paid better.

He hadn't answered her though, so neither had she.

To put it simply, Ratchet had not been a very happy mech. And he'd remained an unhappy mech for nearly a vorn until he finally started warming up - if only slightly - to her. They both changed over the time they worked together - her especially. She shamefully had to admit that she'd turned to him for comfort after witnessing her first fight. He had rejected comforting her. It was cruel, but she had to toughen up, to become unaffected by the violence and brutality. Eventually, she'd become indifferent to the happenings in the Rings, thanks to him.

Their relationship eventually turned into one in which both 'bots were close on an almost familial level, but publicly kept it professional. And she was completely content with that. Ratchet was like a brother to her, though he acted like he was old enough to be her creator. In reality, he wasn't _that_ old. He was only 10 or so vorns older than she was, after all.

That first meeting of theirs had been forty-nine vorns ago. Actually, it'd be fifty vorns two orns from now. She had to remember to get him an anniversary gift. A wry smile crossed her lips at the thought - yeah, he'd _love_ a gift in remembrance of their oh-so-friendly first meeting.

"What are you smirking about over there?" Ratchet asked suspiciously, side-glancing at her.

Successfully broken out of her reverie, she chuckled slightly, "Am I not allowed to smile, Medic?"

"Not like that, no. It's worrying."

"Ouch." She said as if hurt, but she knew he could see the amusement in her expression - or rather, what little expression there was.

Ratchet snorted slightly, unimpressed, leaning over to flick the middle bit of her chevron, "Get to recharge, Femme. I'll still be here when you wake. It's too late in the night cycle now to drive home anyway."

Her doorwings lifted in both surprise from the flick and from the pleased feeling she got at the idea of awakening to have her fellow medic two rooms over instead of somewhere else in the city-state. Usually Ratchet would arrive for work a few groons into the day cycle, leaving her to prepare med bay first by herself. There were other nurses and medics of lower status that did repairs here and came in at roughly the same time as well, but she didn't really look forward to seeing them as she did Ratchet.

"Alright. I'll just finish with updating the files, then I'll rest. But you better do the same after you're done with that arm, workaholic that you are."

Ratchet rolled his optics, "_Please._ I don't need to follow orders from my _trainee_."

She gave him a look, to which he returned effortlessly. They stared for a good klik or so.

"...Primus above, why do you always win our staring contests?" She groaned, shuttering her optics once and then averting her gaze back to the datapads she'd picked up when she walked in.

He smirked, not replying, and got back to work.

Taking that as her cue to also finish, she quickly updated the medical records, put the datapads back inside the filing cabinet there, and left the med bay with one last "G'night." to Ratchet.

* * *

The next orn during midday-cycle, she found herself assigned to work on one of the lower-ranked gladiators after his fight with a turbo-lion. She'd worked on him a couple times before. This time round he was relatively injured, but thrown against a turbo-lion in combat as he'd been, she held some sort of semblance of respect for him that he wasn't worse off.

The mech smirked down at her. He was a dark green, and both tall and wide. He wore heavy armour, and she could already hear the boasting before it left his lips. She restrained herself from sighing and instead made a list of his injuries in her helm, getting to work on the worse ones first and effectively managing to tune out his rambling while she did.

Perhaps a groon or so into her repairs, she sensed the mech's servo reaching for her doorwing. She flicked the door downwards and at the same moment pulled harshly on a sensitive component in the mech's side. He made a noise as if amused, servo returning to the berth he sat on. He hadn't even grimaced or flinched.

"I was just curious," He murmured, his voice tinged with static due to injury, "Never met a Praxian besides you before. Lived my whole life here in Tarn, you see. Couldn't afford enough credits for a transport and didn't deem it worth it to go and travel elsewhere myself."

She didn't respond for another good groon, already well familiarized with their conversation, while she finished repairing his sparking side and his other minor wounds. When she'd done all she could both physically and cosmetically, she subspaced her tools and then turned to the mech, "I suppose that's why you're here in the Pits then, isn't it?"

He still had that smirk on his face, "Aren't most of us here because of that?"

"Perhaps," She replied cryptically, tone suggesting she'd had this talk many times before as well, "but I'm finished with you now, so lest your master has more instructions for me to help with your paintjob, I must get going."

"Don't need my permission to leave, do ya?"

"No, but I was just informing you." She turned on her heel, pausing at the outside of his cell as a slave of the Arena quickly brought in the gladiator's energon for that afternoon. She contemplated on her next words carefully, before saying, "Good luck not deactivating." ...not that she cared much.

"Same to you." He raised his cube in cheers.

She nodded curtly, then walked off. This was how a lot of her repairs went with the lower-classed gladiators. Most of them, though, just let her work on them silently - not because they wanted her, a _femme_, to do so, but because their masters wouldn't have them deactivating over something as petty as injuries that could have easily been repaired when they had the chance.

Looking to her chronometer, she decided that she had enough time to go get some energon herself before checking to see if there was going to be anybot else that needed her help in the near future. She headed to med bay to see if Ratchet had refuelled yet (stubborn fragger refused to have the slaves retrieve anything for him) when her comm. link pinged.

She paused briefly, before continuing on in her trek, opening the communications channel.

**::Femme.::** Well, speak of the devil.

**::Yes, Medic?::** She asked. If he wasn't telling this to her himself, it must have meant he was busy repairing somebot. Knowing this, she decided to go back to her quarters and get some energon from there instead of bothering him in med bay.

**::My servos are currently occupied inside some sorry gladiator's internals-::** Ah, so her suspicion was confirmed, **::-and I'll be here repairing the mech for probably most of the orn, so I need you to head to that Academy run by FirstStrike within the next groon. They got some "fresh ones" that need assessing. I think Quickfix is already there.::** Quickfix was one of the minor medics that occasionally helped within the Rings - he was a nice mech, a bit quiet though. Not that she was complaining.

**::Can you not send one of the others off duty?::** She asked, a sudden hesitancy making itself known.**  
**

**::Anybot else who _could_ is occupied at the moment, plus those who aren't busy wouldn't know to assign the trainees into the proper fighting groups or even _how_ to do so.::** Ratchet reasoned with no small amount of annoyance.

**::But Ratchet-::**

**::They've also got some interesting ones at the academy this orn is what I've heard.::** Ratchet hummed.**  
**

The Praxian's doorwing twitched, her insatiable (yet controllable, if need be) curiosity forcing her to query, **::...interesting how?::**

**::_Twin recruits_ interesting.::**

Twins... not unheard of, but extremely rare. **::Split-spark?::** She asked hopefully.

**::Pit if I know.::** Ratchet snorted. **::I just know there are going to be twins, and that you need to get your aft in gear _now_.::** A pause, as if considering something else, before, **::And I'll**** find somebot else to take care of the rest of your repairs for the orn.::**

A brief pause ensued, before Storm sighed, curiosity piqued and out-negotiated, **::Affirmative. ****I'll comm. you when I get back.::**

**::Make sure you do so. Ratchet out.:: **The comm. link cut off.

She let out her sigh this time, jogging to her quarters and subspacing two energon cubes. She had to sneak her way through the crowds of audience members flitting about during an interlude between battles, but she eventually made it outside the amphitheatre. Quickly transforming into her vehicle mode, she tore down the streets the fastest she could go without drawing too much attention - though the roads were mostly empty because everybot in the area was at the Rings.

As she drove, she tried not to think about that little bout of worry that nagged at her. She'd gone to this particular gladiator academy many times previous in Ratchet's place. Sometimes they, as medics, would go to the academies to help assess the new slaves/volunteers and determine whether they _could_ become a gladiator, and what type they'd best fight as.

She didn't particularly like or hate doing so, but after forty-nine vorns it still bothered her - if only slightly - when a mech (or the rare femme) couldn't become a gladiator because they weren't healthy enough to begin with. It never ended prettily, the poor victim usually dragged away to be thrown into the arena anyway, or sentenced to another cruel fate.

When the academy soon came into sight though, she decided to shrug off the thoughts, promptly transforming and walking in through the heavy metal doors into the large building. Though her mind still strayed a bit. It was inevitable that her worries would turn into reality again. But she shouldn't fret too much. She was just doing her job anyhow, right? Really...

...it wasn't like she cared much. Just a little bit.

* * *

**A/N: And that's that chapter! I'll say this now - if anyone's interested in me continuing, that is - I'll only be able to update as fast as I can write chapters. The second one is already written with the third in the works, but I'll be releasing the second when the third is finished, and then the third when the fourth is finished, and so on. I find it puts my mind more at ease like this. Also, the chapters' length will most likely depend on the content, so I can't say how long or short each will be.**

**That's about all I have to say, though. I'm assuming that if you've gotten this far that you'd actually read the whole thing... so thanks a whole lot for reading!**


End file.
